


risk of ruin

by redpaint



Series: risk of ruin [1]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gambling, M/M, Partners in Crime, commitment issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:54:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22409758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpaint/pseuds/redpaint
Summary: Charles has seen enough lucky streaks to believe that anything is possible, but there’s something uncanny about how Daniel cleans up the table, hand after hand, drink after drink, the clock ticking on towards midnight. Despite the jokes, he’s more in control than any given player that comes by Charles’s table. The others get high on the thrill of winning, get reckless. Daniel whoops at his winning hands, but his bets and his play stay steady, even as he rakes in more chips, flips another hand to a perfect twenty-one.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Daniel Ricciardo
Series: risk of ruin [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623733
Comments: 16
Kudos: 59





	risk of ruin

Daniel slides into the open seat at the end of the table, and Charles just about chokes on his own spit. He’s wearing a tailored suit, not the boxers and obnoxious t-shirt he had worn in his hotel room, but Charles recognizes him easily enough. He looks like a proper adult, not just another one of the money-drunk kids blowing their trust fund on the French Riviera. Charles has known plenty of those. Daniel fucked him better than any of those pricks had.

The thing is, no matter how good the dick was, Charles has to pray that it’s just a coincidence Daniel is at his table. This was always a risk he was taking, fucking rich tourists, but his uniform is usually enough of a disguise, the slim-cut black dress making him just another anonymous feature of the luxe Beaux-Arts decor. If it’s not a coincidence, if Daniel looked for him here, well, the possibility is as creepy as it is tiring. Charles is not trying to be anything more than anyone’s summer fling, and Daniel seems like he could get clingy. Better to assume that it’s pure luck, for both of their sakes. Charles puts on his best professional smile and informs Daniel of the considerable table limits.

“Good, that should be enough to make it interesting,” Daniel says as he carefully arranges his chips on the table. He chuckles to himself, then looks up. The ever-present smile falls off his face, replaced by dumb shock. Not a stalker then. Charles waits to deal him in, praying that Daniel will mutter some kind of excuse and find another table. They can pretend this never happened, and they can both remember each other as a quick fuck, rather real people on very different sides of the table. Daniel doesn’t budge. He recovers with grace, leaning back in his seat and shooting Charles a wink. “Alrighty then, what are we waiting for?” he says, bravado back in full force. “Let’s get this party started.”

Charles deals a couple of hands, Daniel sipping his drink and looking at Charles over the rim of it, holding his gaze when Charles catches him. He plays with disarming casualness, like this is a game in a friend’s living room and not a high-limit table in a private room at the Casino de Monte-Carlo. Most of the players that show up at Charles’s table are serious gamblers, guys who shun the free drinks and focus hard on the cards in front of them.

But Daniel is different. He starts gesturing for a new drink way more often than seems wise, jokes around with the other players. He starts flirting, which Charles would usually lean into, a few well-placed touches on a high roller’s wrist usually enough to make sure he gets tipped in black chips. But Daniel keeps making unsubtle references to his dick and looking up at Charles like this is his Netflix stand-up special. Charles just smiles politely, nothing more. Daniel winks as he pushes a tall stack of chips to the center of the table. He’s charming, despite everything, and it makes Charles grind his teeth.

Most unusual of all is that Daniel _wins_.

Charles has seen enough lucky streaks to believe that anything is possible, but there’s something uncanny about how Daniel cleans up the table, hand after hand, drink after drink, the clock ticking on towards midnight. Despite the jokes, he’s more in control than any given player that comes by Charles’s table. The others get high on the thrill of winning, get reckless. Daniel whoops at his winning hands, but his bets and his play stay steady, even as he rakes in more chips, flips another hand to a perfect twenty-one.

“Do you gamble professionally, sir?” Charles asks cooly, collecting the cards. Daniel probably told him what he did when they were making awkward small talk in his hotel room, but Charles hadn’t really been listening, too busy feeling out the most appropriate moment to drop to his knees so he could finally get Daniel to be quiet.

“Nah, I’m just here for pleasure,” Daniel says, and winks _again_ , diminishing returns be damned. “I’d say I’m succeeding.”

“Lady Luck is certainly on your side tonight,” Charles replies, the same line he uses on all the guys on a winning streak.

Daniel raps the table in agreement. Charles does a double-take. There’s a flash of something white between Daniel’s fingers, obscured between his hand and the felt. It’s only visible for a split-second, and then it’s gone. Charles carefully tracks Daniel’s hands as they come up and undo the top button of his shirt, but he can’t see anything out of place, just the neatly tattooed number three on Daniel’s pinky and the bit of tanned skin now framed by a vee of white linen. Charles turns to the other players at the table and deals out another round of cards.

The rest of the table stays or busts, but when the deal comes to Daniel, he hits. He peeks at the card and whistles. The player to his right, an older man who seems to have enjoyed watching Daniel’s luck, elbows him in the side. “Another one? Come on, leave some luck for the rest of us.”

Daniel laughs, but the elbow jostles him enough that he pulls his arm away and _there_. Charles sees it again, and it’s unmistakable this time. There’s an ace tucked up under Daniel’s palm, the exact same card design they’re playing with. It hovers there as if by magic, but Charles knows that practice and confidence can be its own kind of sorcery. Daniel readjusts his posture and the card disappears again, but it’s too late. 

How could all of the casino’s training sessions and Charles’s own common sense fail him this badly? He had been promoted as the youngest high-limit dealer because of the no-nonsense attitude he hid under his modesty and charm. Muckers are con artists, masters of misdirection, but Charles has always prided himself on his own single-minded focus. Daniel’s presence at the table seems to have robbed him of at least half of his IQ points. He would be furious at Daniel if he weren’t so angry at himself.

He runs his finger under the edge of the table until he feels the button that will alert security. They’re not the nicest folks, known mostly for making Monaco a little less beautiful with each wannabe swindler they teach a lesson to. Daniel may be a nuisance and a cheat, but he deserves to fly home with his face intact. Charles could flag the pit boss instead, just tell him that the gentleman is too drunk to be playing and get him sent back to his hotel. Yes, that’s better. Charles scans the room for Mattia, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Fine. Now that Charles sees the act, Daniel’s charm does nothing for him. He can deal with this himself.

Daniel puts his cards on the table. Twenty-one. Charles gathers them smoothly. This table is his domain, and he won’t let it be fucked with. He wills himself to appear as commanding as his twenty-two years and pretty face will allow. “Sir, you need to leave.”

Daniel scoffs, making sure the other players at the table know how ridiculous he finds the suggestion. “Aw come on now, is there a rule against being lucky? That’s just unfair!”

There’s boldness, and then there’s recklessness, and Daniel is straddling the line between the two. It’s almost impressive. Charles touches the button again, but he can’t make himself press it. One final chance then. He leans over the table, grazes the inside of Daniel’s wrist with his fingertips, then slides them over the card hidden in his palm. He leans in closer, close enough that he can whisper in Daniel’s ear. “I know you think you are very smooth, but you are not fooling anyone. If you do not leave right the fuck now, I will call security, and they _really_ don’t like cheaters. I would not expect that you will get many dates once they are done with you.” He knows what this looks like to the other players, how bad they must want what Daniel is getting right now, because they’re too busy staring at his ass to see the spark of fear in Daniel’s eyes.

Daniel stands up from the table abruptly, stuffing his hands in his pockets to ditch the cards. He looks equal parts angry and sad, staring pointedly at the piles of chips he will have to leave behind. Charles could laugh. It’s as though Daniel’s never been caught out before. He should know that stupid games come with stupid prizes.

“Au revoir,” he sneers, mispronouncing every syllable, and then he’s gone, stalking towards the exit with his hands curled into tight fists by his sides. If the other players at the table are surprised by the abrupt change in mood, they don’t show it, more distracted by Daniel’s abandoned winnings.

“Say, I’ll take those if he doesn’t want them,” says the middle-aged American who’s been steadily losing all night. He leers at Charles. “I could take you out somewhere nice.”

Charles hopes his canned laughter stops the contempt from showing on his face. He gathers up the chips and deals another hand. Everything is back under control. Another rich, predictable loser comes to fill Daniel’s seat. A passing waitress stops to pick up the empty glass Daniel left on the table.

“Another tonic water, sir?” she asks the new arrival. Charles bites his tongue, his mouth as bitter as quinine.

⁂

Charles leaves the casino by the employee door. Changed out of his dress and into a pilling black sweater and jeans, he feels a little more human, a little less like a robot that takes bets, deals cards, and constantly scans for deceit. That’s what makes it all the more dangerous when he sees Daniel waiting at the end of the alley, face lit up in the blue glow of his phone screen. Whatever Daniel is trying to do here, Charles won’t have it. He just wants to go home and get off his feet. It’s nearly two in the morning.

“When I said you should leave, I did not mean wait outside until I left. Any other dealer in there will spot what you’re up to, and they won’t be as nice as I am,” Charles says as he approaches. Daniel looks up from his phone, and his self-satisfied look makes Charles want to either fuck him or fight him, neither of which are a good idea on the grounds of his workplace. This guy seriously isn’t worth the trouble. He walks by, not waiting for a response. If Daniel wants to be an idiot and go back inside then it’s his own grave to dig. 

“How much do you make working in there?” Daniel asks. Charles stops and turns to face him.

“I make enough.” He thinks of his three roommates, the basement bedroom. There’s a reason he always meets guys at their hotel rooms.

Daniel looks unconvinced. “But enough is never _enough_ is it?”

He’s right, but it’s still presumptuous enough to raise Charles’s hackles. He crosses his arms in front of his chest. Does Daniel think he _knows_ him or something? “Sorry, but I’m not going to let you cheat just because I sucked your dick one time. I’m not that kind of girl.”

“No, you’re going to let me cheat because you saw how much money it can make me. Half of that could be yours. You just have to turn a blind eye. And if I’m caught you can always say you were distracted by my devilish good looks.” Daniel leans back against the wall, seemingly satisfied with his pitch. His confidence would be grating if it wasn’t earned. It’s hard to say no to an offer like this. Really hard. Charles had counted the chips as he doled them out, tens of thousands of dollars in less than two hours.

Charles glances around the alley. This is possibly the worst place to be having this conversation. More employees will be coming off their shift as the tables close, streaming out of the casino and into the cool Mediterranean night.

Daniel seems unimpressed by his hesitation. “Come on, you said yourself you could have had me 86’d in a heartbeat. You didn’t even get the boss and put me on a list or anything. Admit it, you kind of like me.”

Charles does not, in fact, have to admit to anything. And he doesn’t, not when they shake on it, not when he follows Daniel back to his hotel room, not when he lets Daniel peel the sweater off of him and kiss down his neck, and not when he comes embarassingly fast under Daniel’s clever, lying hands. This is an arrangement born out of opportunity and circumstance. Liking anybody never has to come into it.

⁂

It’s so Hollywood it almost makes him sick. Stacks of Euros dig into his back, half-full champagne flutes on the nightstand rattle as the bed rocks. They always end up having sex afterward, high on the thrill of deception and the perennial disbelief that they keep getting away with it. Held down by the warm, solid weight of Daniel’s body, Charles doesn’t have to think about the fisheye cameras that watched his table from up above, and how they could easily leave them both bloody, broke, and in jail.

They can’t do this forever. The casino will catch on eventually; it’s a miracle they haven’t yet. Maybe it’s because Daniel only shows up once or twice a year, or because the stiff code of etiquette that rules the _salons privé_ foolishly defers judgement to the dealers. Daniel makes cards disappear and reappear at will. He plays the tipsy, cozy patron and makes the other players laugh. Charles doesn’t let his nerves show and tries not to look too fond when Daniel crosses the line of propriety, flirting again like it’s the only language he knows.

“I always forget how good you look when you’re pretending to be pissed off,” Daniel says in Charles’s ear. He punctuates it with a groan, thrusting deeper. “Like it doesn’t turn you on, breaking the rules. You like the danger.”

“I like watching you do it.” Charles hates how easily he says. He’s always careful with his words, even during sex. Except when he’s with Daniel.

Daniel laughs into Charles’s neck. “What is it? That you can’t spot the trick, even though you should be able to? That I’m just that good?” Charles whines, because _yeah_ , Daniel _is_ good, good enough that it terrifies him. He’s good when he plays and he’s good when he cheats and he’s good when he pushes Charles’s knee up to his chest to get an angle that has Charles’s eyes rolling back in his head. “Want to fuck you right there on the table, show all the bosses how you’ve been had. How you’re with the only guy in this city who’s worth your time.”

Charles wants him to keep talking until they both come. Charles wants him to shut up. Daniel talks constantly but Charles doesn’t know anything about him. Where is he the rest of the year? Does he tour the world, robbing the casinos blind? Maybe Daniel has a version of him in Macau, or in Vegas, who wonder about the same thing. Do they find themselves checking their phones for the text that only comes every six months at the most? Do they stop seeing other people, because their attention can never compare to Daniel’s, can never be as addictive, even when it’s short-lived?

Daniel jerks Charles off until he’s coming over his stomach and chest. “So fucking beautiful,” Daniel bites out, then he’s coming as well, gripping Charles’s hips hard.

How many times can someone be a fling before they stop being a fling? Charles stares at Daniel, who’s now just a snoring lump on the other side of the bed. The sick bite of jealousy is answer enough.

Charles has made enough money that he doesn’t need to take Daniel’s share, but he does, stuffing the bills into his backpack quick enough to outpace his own regret. He needs a clean break. Daniel risked enough for this money; no matter how much he likes Charles, he will never forgive him for this. 

Charles leaves a note on the desk. _The house always wins._ He doesn’t believe it, but he hopes Daniel will.

**Author's Note:**

> [ _Risk of ruin is a concept in gambling, insurance, and finance relating to the likelihood of losing all one's investment capital or extinguishing one's bankroll below the minimum for further play._ ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Risk_of_ruin)
> 
> the way Daniel cheats is totally unworkable in a modern casino but who cares i'm just trying to survive winter break by thinking about dealer!charles in a dress okay
> 
> tumblr @ redpaint


End file.
